


Necessitas Temporis

by caitlinnlouwho



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lawyer!Courf, M/M, Scientist!Combeferre, Soulmate AU, Symbols, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitlinnlouwho/pseuds/caitlinnlouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate tattoos are a given in this day and age; with all the chaos in the world, there is only one way to ensure that love goes according to fate’s design. On the eve of their eighteenth birthday, every human is branded with a mark that indicates who their true love is.</p><p>Courfeyrac hadn’t really known what to expect on his eighteenth birthday (he’d be stupid to try, nobody ever does), but this had never crossed his imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Butterflies and Rainstorms

Courfeyrac hadn’t really known what to expect on his eighteenth birthday (he’d be stupid to try, nobody ever does), but this had never crossed his imagination.

He stares down at his arm, looking at the intricate black lines that sweep across it; ink-dark and thin as paper, they come together to form the outline of a moth. It looks like something out of a Victorian lepidopterology book and Courfeyrac can’t take his eyes off it.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, cradling his wrist to his chest. The party had long since ended; his back yard was now strewn with streamers and food wrappers and cans and his humble flat didn’t look any better. In a way, he is extremely grateful that he’d kicked his friends out earlier. He thinks that this moment is too poignant and too private (overly-romantic sap that he is) to share with his rowdy second family.

He falls asleep next to his laptop that night, browser clogged with tab after tab about moths and a dreamy smile on his lips.

xxx

Combeferre turns eighteen without any pomp or circumstance, and he’s a bit unnerved when he gets his tattoo.

What else could he have expected? He’s studying to be a doctor; he’d expected some intricate scalpel art or anatomy design to pop up on his arm. Something clearly indicating that he's following the right path, the right career, the right everything. Doctors are not meant to have anything else. 

Instead, it’s a sun.

He thanks his lucky stars that it’s (for lack of a better word, he’s never been a loquacious man) _cool_ , at least, and admires the intricate knotted pattern that makes up the circle on his forearm. The ink is just as black as he expected, with emaciated lines blending into fatter strokes. The closest bonds, they always say, have tattoos that look as though the other painted their love with skin as their canvas.

So he breathes in relief, given the fact that he can just make out the brush strokes in the sun’s rays, and picks up his intensely boring medical textbook again. If nothing else goes right with his plans, at least his love life will (or so he hopes). 

He thinks very little of the tattoo again, save for the few times his lab coat fails to do its job correctly. And if he goes home later those nights and traces it with a fingertip, well, nobody has to know but him. 

xxx

As much as Courfeyrac likes to say he’s an optimist, he tends to doubt his chances of success on dreary days where the skies darken and pour themselves out. It’s days like these that make him grumble to his friends that _it’s been four years, honestly_ , and wrap a leather cuff around the mark on his wrist before facing another day full of clients and cases.

Of course, he’d assumed that forgoing the umbrella today would be fine, since the sun had done such a wonderful job of waking him up early. 

He yanks open the nearest door and steps in, trying very hard to stop from shaking the water out of his hair like a dog. He’s glad he didn’t when he sees the man behind the counter, who’s engrossed in a book so thick that it gives Courfeyrac an unpleasant flashback to law school. The man doesn’t register the bell above the door ringing, and jumps noticeably when Courfeyrac clears his throat to apologize.

“Sorry, didn’t see you—how can I help?” His cheeks are tinted pink, and Courfeyrac slaps on his most charming grin.

“I should be apologizing to you,” he says sheepishly, gesturing to the puddle on the floor. “First for getting caught in the deluge, second for coming in looking like a drowned rat, and third for dripping water all over your floor.” He blows a sopping wet curl out of his eyes and fixes the stranger with his most pitiful look. 

The nameless man cranes his neck to look at the floor, muttering something, and Courfeyrac runs his eyes over him appreciatively. _Sandy brown hair, tall-ish, clearly has some muscle definition underneath the sweater vest. Not a bad look, though. Glasses are a nice touch. One usually keeps wearing them if they have something nice to magnify underneath them, so we’ll assume he has nice eyes as well._

He’s jolted from his reverie, noticing that the man has stopped talking and is now watching him carefully.

“If you’re going to stare at me like I’m a steak, you might as well tell me your name,” he says, smirking at Courfeyrac.

“Courfeyrac. I do have a first name, don’t worry, but it’s so unbearably pretentious that I can’t bear to utter it,” he says easily, offering his hand.

“Combeferre. Join the club.”

“Is this a bookshop?” Courfeyrac asks, looking around interestedly, flushing bright red as he knocks an elephant tusk off the counter with a loud clattering noise. 

“In a way,” Combeferre replies. “I was studying to become a doctor, but I found something else that piqued my interest. If you can’t tell, it’s more of a, uh, _science emporium_ than anything else. I think that animals are more interesting to explore than people.”

Courfeyrac notices the books stacked on the counter, and his eyes widen in recognition, phrases he's etched into his brain for years leaping off the spines.

_Lepidoptera._

_The Study of Butterflies and Moths in Central and Western Europe._

_Entomology_ _and the Modern Scientist._

His eyes flick to the back wall, where perfectly preserved rows of butterflies are tacked and labeled in a glass display case, and realization starts to hit him like a brick to the face. He swallows hard, fingertips tapping his leather cuff unconsciously.

“I should probably get going,” he stammers, edging towards the door. “It was lovely to meet you, believe me, but I’m about to be late to a meeting.”

Combeferre’s eyebrow quirks, and he shrugs noncommittally. “It was nice to meet you too, Courfeyrac.”

The door shuts behind him, and he all but sprints down the street, trying to control his breathing. He yanks his phone out of his pocket, firing off a text to his beloved but suitably terrifying business partner.

_E- I might be late. I think I just met him. Holy fuck._


	2. Beagles and Collisions

Combeferre would be lying if he doesn’t say he’s in an absolutely foul mood. He’s rudely awakened by the dog he’d taken in a few days ago, begging for some treats that _were completely unnecessary, the damn dog has a full bowl of food in the kitchen—_ and promptly realizes he’s late for work.

He manages to make it to the bookshop in one piece, only to find a hefty bill from the roofer who fixed the massive leak in the ceiling a month earlier. Plus a voicemail on his phone from his mother, asking a bit too intrusively if he’s found anyone yet and if he’ll be visiting for dinner soon.

As far as Tuesdays go, this one is utterly disappointing.

He reads through the rest of his blissfully calm shift (silently thanking the fact that his online shop is booming, because otherwise he’d be fucked for money this week) and decides he deserves his favorite coffee, so he sets across town to the hole-in-the-wall he frequents, nose buried in a book as usual. The November air bites at his nose, and he wraps his coat further around his body as he walks through the _jardin_.

He doesn’t notice the man barreling across his path until he’s on the ground blinking stupidly at the sight across from him.

Sure enough, Courfeyrac is sitting on the ground, papers everywhere, laughing at his clumsiness. Combeferre feels his face heat as he realizes how attractive the other man is as he sits in the middle of the footpath cackling his ass off. _How romantic._

He hops up, brushing the dust off his pants, and offers a hand to help Courfeyrac up. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac replies, tears of laughter still streaming from his eyes. “And I think that one was my fault.”

“Either way, I’m just glad I wasn’t holding the coffee I was about to go get,” Combeferre says, steeling himself and crossing his fingers. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to come with if you’re not busy.”

Courfeyrac smiles, and Combeferre tries not to notice how his eyes sparkle gold under the green. “Well, I was, but it’s so cold I can barely think.”

They set off towards the café, huddled close to keep warm, and watch the birds chase each other in the sky as they pass.

xxx

“No,” Courfeyrac whines. “You cannot be a Trekkie.”

Combeferre laughs, and Courfeyrac appreciates how warm it sounds. “I’m really not sorry.”

"But Star Wars is a gift to human civilization!"

"Courf, I'm a scientist."  

“Fine, fine,” Courfeyrac says, putting his hands up. “At least tell me you like Lord of the Rings.”

“At least tell me you like Samwise better than Frodo.”

“Always. Although the real answer to that question is Merry and Pippin,” he banters back, grinning cheekily. “Still, I’m convinced my all-encompassing love for potatoes comes from that little ginger hobbit.”

Combeferre opens his mouth to reply, but his phone begins to shriek angrily, causing several other people in the café to stare daggers at him.

“Oh no,” he says ruefully. “Darwin’s gotten loose.” He stands up hastily, throwing on his coat and scribbling something onto a napkin. “Here,” he says, handing the napkin to Courfeyrac. “I don’t think we’re done talking, do you?” He throws a wink at Courfeyrac and dashes out the door.

Courfeyrac stares down at the numbers as Combeferre leaves, a warmth spreading into his cheeks that he’s sure has nothing to do with his coffee. He’s about to leave when a small red book on the table catches his eye; it’s certainly not his.

He manages to wait a full hour before firing off a text to Combeferre, asking if his Darwin (whatever that was) was okay, and if he’d like his book back.

The address he received in response seemed to be a perfectly acceptable answer.

xxx

Courfeyrac arrives at Combeferre’s flat, nervously tapping at his wrist (for God knows what reason, it’s not like they’re dating or anything like that). The door opens, and Courfeyrac swallows hard as Combeferre leans against the jamb looking utterly gorgeous.

“Hey, Courf,” he says, pushing an overexcited beagle away from the door. “Stop it, Darwin.”

“Oh, this is who you were talking about?” he asks, laying the book on the floor as he kneels to rub the dog’s head. “Good boy, Darwin.” The beagle makes a happy grunt and wags his tail even harder.

Combeferre chuckles. “He likes you.”

“Well, I’m completely charming, am I not?” Courfeyrac asks, smirking pleasantly. “Here,” he says, proffering the book. “I fed it twice a day and everything.”

“Thank you very much,” Combeferre replies, and reaches for it when his sleeve rides up, showing two of the rays on his forearm.

“What’s that?” Courfeyrac asks jokingly. “Did the scientist have a wild streak _au lycée?_ “

“It wasn’t exactly my choice,” he says nervously, rolling up his sleeve to give Courfeyrac a better look.

The minute Courfeyrac’s eyes see the tattoo, it all makes sense. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and takes off his wrist cuff. Combeferre’s eyes widen, and he stares hard at the moth.

“Did you know, Courf?” he says softly, eyes snapping up to meet Courfeyrac’s, who shakes his head vehemently. 

“I didn’t—“

Darwin all but shoves Combeferre off the door jamb, and he stumbles against Courfeyrac who steadies him. “I guess my damn dog knows how to make a better move than I do,” he says a bit pathetically, pouting at Courfeyrac.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m here then,” Courfeyrac replies, and experimentally presses their lips together. The soulmate bond explodes like fire between them, and they grip each other tighter, swaying in the hallway.

They break apart, chests heaving, and Combeferre twirls one of Courfeyrac’s curls in his fingers. “So.”

“So, you should come to dinner with me tonight,” Courfeyrac breathes. Combeferre grins, and pulls Courf back in for another kiss.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I have been absolutely dying to write a soulmate tattoo fic, and I thought my new favorite pair would be the perfect duo for it. As always, kudos, bookmarks, and comments are more than appreciated, and enjoy! :)


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